by Attila Zønn
“There’s a place around here where there’s fresh flesh,” Ludy said.
“Really? Now?” I said. “I just want some lunch. ”
“You’re getting way too old at your young age. Youth is vitality. Youth is loud. Youth is trying to experience every goddamn thing under the sun. Don’t squander your youth. It won’t last for too long.”
“Youth is hanging around strip bars?”
“David, we can sit in an uninteresting place and have a bite and a beer, or we can have a bite and a beer whilst enjoying the sight of a naked female. Trust me, it all tastes better with a side of tits and ass.”
So here we were, driving in the boonies on a quest for fresh flesh. I’d been to a lot of his stripper moments— “pole girls” he called them — and they all did the same thing.
We drove into a wooded area off Altona and came to an industrial building with Harleys parked outside. We bumped across a cracked parking lot of potholes and backed into a spot under trees. I put the car in park, looked out, saw the sign — Lucifer’s Hole — and said, “This is a biker bar.”
“So? I don’t discriminate.”
Battered double wooden doors opened to a short foyer with a sign, Enter At Your Own Risk, above the archway that lead to a large room with plank flooring and square tables sparsely occupied by old, fat, tattooed men with beards and ponytails, in leather vests. There was a long bar to the right of us, and vintage motorcycles pinned high, here and there, on the walls. A warm yellow hue lit the stage. The stripper pole glinted.
The walls had framed movie posters — Brando in The Wild One, another poster of Easy Rider, some B-Movies, I assumed, because I’d never heard of them — Cycle Psychos, She-Devils on Wheels, The Savage Seven.
“The owner must like movies,” Ludy said.
The sign on a pedestal read Sit Wherever The Fuck You Want, so we found a table next to the stage and sat down. We got some looks from the old fat men, probably because we were in suits and didn’t adorn the accoutrements of the biker life. A heavy brunette woman with a slight mustache approached us. She smiled at me.
“I’m Shelley,” she said. “What can I get you?” Shelley came without menus. Ludy looked her up and down. “We’ll have a couple of menus,” he said.
“Lunch is over,” she said. “Cook’s gone. He’ll be back around 4, maybe.”
“That sucks,” Ludy said.
“We don’t serve lunch when lunch is over,” she said, and pointed to a sign with large lettering on the back wall, which read We Don’t Serve Lunch When Lunch Is Over. Get over it.
“See?” she said. “House policy. Just beer. You want beer?”
“I’ll have a Stella,” Ludy said.
“All we have is Bud,” she said.
“That sucks,” Ludy said. “Where’s the sign for that?”
“I’ll tell the owner to put one up,” she said.
Ludy snapped a pointed stare at her. She smirked.
“Give us two pints of Bud then.”
“All we have is bottles,” she said.
Ludy looked at me and chuckled. “Is this place a joke?”
She glared at him as if she’d hated him all her life.
He looked up at her and then away and said, “Okay. Two bottles of Bud then.”
“It’s a two beer minimum,” she said.
“I did say two bottles,” Ludy said, looked at me and shook his head.
“Each,” she said.
Ludy stared up at her again. She smirked. “Whatever,” he said, and waved her off.
“Jesus,” Ludy said after she’d walked away. “What an attitude. No tip for her.”
“I don’t like this place,” I said.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
“There’s no food.”
“We’ll get something later.”
The lights died down and a spotlight hit the back corner of the stage.
Over a bassy loudspeaker, the announcer came on and said, “So here she is guys. Our Charlotte is ready to do some shakin’ and peelin’.” Drum roll.
From the side of the stage, a skinny leg stuck out, attached to a fifty-ish woman with big blonde hair. The place exploded with cheers and whistles.
“What the fuck?” Ludy said.
Shelley returned with our beers. I handed her a fifty and waved her away when she tried to give me change. Ludy frowned at me and shook his head.
Our Charlotte looked worn and she made me think that the best years of her life had been wasted on nasty men.
The music came on— Big Spender.
Our Charlotte traipsed to the pole, grabbed it, spun around it, gave it some humps, then wrapped herself around it, slid to the base of it, then pulled herself up, tried but was unsuccessful holding herself up with leg pressure, slid down and repeated.
Ludy chuckled. “This has to be a joke.”
Over the next few minutes and without much finesse, she took everything off except her golden thong. Her tits hung like stretched water balloons. Then she did a should I or shouldn’t I? tease with her thong, to shouts from the old fat men to, “Take it off! Take it off!”
With a sharp tug she yanked the thong off, exposing a floppy and stubbly snatch, and threw it to a guy to the right of us who stood and caught it in flight, sniffed it, raised his eyes in ecstasy, then waved it over his head like a victory flag. More cheers from the old fat men.
Our Charlotte left the pole and slid to the floor where she writhed to the beat. Got on her knees, showed us her ass, flipped on her back and spread her legs, crisscrossed her legs in the air, got on her knees, showed us her ass, then writhed on the floor.
It wasn’t sexy.
The music was loud. Ludy leaned towards me, put a hand to the side of his mouth and shouted, “I CAN’T TELL WHAT’S BIGGER — HER CUNT OR HER ASS HOLE!”
Our Charlotte stopped writhing, got on her knees and faced us.
“I HEARD THAT!” she shouted.
She stood, picked up her crumpled robe from the stage and walked off towards the man with the microphone. The music died. Moans of disappointment from the old fat men.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
We quick-stepped towards the exit. I looked across the room to Charlotte who was talking to the man with the microphone.
We heard from the speakers, “It seems there’s a couple of assholes here who just insulted our Charlotte.”
She grabbed the microphone and pointed at us. “Those guys.”
The old fat men grumbled and chairs scraped on the floor. I was watching the exit and a huge red haired guy with long hair and a beard moved towards the front doors. He blocked the exit and crossed his arms. We were fucked…
Copyright©Attila Zønn 2019